


The Beginning Of It All

by melodicMasochist



Series: Strideritis [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Boring Parties, Character Mentions, Doomed Timelines, Drinking, Ectobiology, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, I WARNED YOU ABOUT STAIRS BRO!!! I TOLD YOU DOG!!, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Name-Calling, One Night Stands, PILLOW PETS, Parties, Relationship Problems, Underage Drinking, being revised, coffee sludge, does underage apply when youre on a rock hurtling thru space though, family inherited drinking issues, in progress, kanayas dead, kind of sad, messes, meteorstuck AU i guess, monologues, nose bleeds, organized living situation, part of a series, roxy likes to throw parties for her friends because they Deserve It, shitty alchemy, strilondes are german/italian descent, swears of all kinds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7186784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodicMasochist/pseuds/melodicMasochist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Leave me be," Dave mumbles bluntly. There's a regretful sting in the vacancy of his voice.<br/>It's only now that you realize there's a small plastic bottle of a dark yellow liquid in his lap. You figure it's something of a hybrid beverage he's whipped up. You know, like a fucking lunatic.<br/>You narrow your eyes, refusing to absorb a word of his drunken stupidity. Let him be? And to do what, sit here on the floor and keep wallowing in a miserable pile of himself? Like fuck are you letting that happen.<br/>"Do you wanna try a sip, babe?"<br/>"Christ,"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beginning Of It All

**Author's Note:**

> This work is currently under construction. I'm doing some heavy revising since my writing style when I first published this was way different than what it is now. I'm proud of this story that I drafted a couple years ago and I want it to be its best. Please be patient and check back for nearly-daily edits. Thanks :)

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS, and right now you're HAVING TROUBLE remembering the reason why you even bother with these LAME-ASS GATHERINGS ANYWAYS. You're standing in the middle of what seems to be A LARGE  PARTY thrown in favor of NO ONE SPECIFIC, IF ANYONE AT ALL.

It's all Roxy's doing. You know it is, and there's no grain of doubt in your mind on the matter. You tell yourself that maybe you're being rude to act like she's doing anything wrong. After she and her friends joined you among the survivors of the meteor, John and Jade arrived within a week of Roxy,  and _Roxy_ wanted something structural on the calendar instead of lying around doing whatever like the rest of you. So she claimed every other first Friday of the remaining months as a day to celebrate anything and everything. You had all agreed to meet in one of the abandoned labs, and as the humans had referred to it, something resembling a “gym.” A tangent ensued about public educational buildings' "gyms" where similar events took place. On Earth, that is. 

The reality of Lalonde's groupings were, however, not nearly as phenomenal as the boasts. As great as you imagined them just then, most of the decorations or favors were truely poorly-alchemized on a whole new level of bad altogether. Plain, chunky glitter, a couple of irreparably warped kazoos here and there, and the very few people genuinely enjoying themselves probably tucked away at the snack table. Roxy maybe starts dancing around to the music encouragingly for a hot minute before giving up and migrating to the snacks as well.

Oh, and how could you forget what terrible party music filled the air? Ugh. Of Dave's selection, of course. He was immediately assigned control of the playlists the moment the whole party decision was made in the first place. Whether he realizes it or not, it seemed to you that it was his mission to destroy your aural canals with his song choices. You have to remind yourself sometimes why you even come to these lame-ass gatherings anyways. Other than to see Dave dance to himself behind his stand of storage bins. You asked him to dance with you once, and tripped over the cords surrounding his laptop on your way back, unplugging everything. You remember Dave diving for his computer before it, too, crashed to the floor next to you. Looking up, though, Dave isn't anywhere to be found. The question of his location only crosses your mind briefly. 

You sip from the flimsy plastic cup you hold like it weighs eight pounds instead of one, taking a moment to get your thoughts straight. Laughter erupts from across the room that might've been followed a mug shattering. So much for not eating out of foam cups the rest of your lives. Ugh. You need to get out of here before something else reckless and wasteful happens. You can feel a headache coming on and with that in mind, you really do  _not_ need to go off at anything.

==> Karkat, discern the pounding in your head from the thumping of the music.

You move to obey the voice in your head and the first wave of a soft untraceable thudding in your thinkpan hits you. Ow. You (only slightly consciously) realize the world seems to be tipping. Or… You're falling over. Perfect. 

==> No, don't pass out. Your drink isn't even alcoholic, stand up.

To stop yourself from stumbling over and falling, you grunt as your hand flies out to hold yourself up on the wall near you. That pounding surges up and you wince. The grape juice in your cup spills out onto your fingers with the force, but you don't really care, even though the soft groan of disgust that escapes you says something entirely different. Gross. A layer of froth dissolves on the juice's surface as you stand back up straight and look around the room.  
Terezi and Dirk are taking turns tasting the snack foods. Jake and Jade look deep in conversation with John asleep next to them on the foamseat, and Rose is missing from the picture as usual.

This is stupid.

To your right, however, is the towering arch that leads into the hallway and even further to your right, an indent in the room that's apparently supposed to be a kitchen. You can see that the lights are almost all turned off (or just too decrepit to turn on), the lighting dimmer and somehow more sinister from behind your headache that's hindering a logical thought process. It's alluring. You should probably stop drinking this sugar water shit and get some actual water in your body. Maybe that'll help your head.

==> Inspect vaguely menacing kitchen. And hey, try not to shit your pants while you're at it.

Ditching the cup on a cluttered table, you not-so-stealthily sneak into said spoopy kitchen to look around, successful in not shitting yourself. The counters are cluttered with more terribly alchemized plastic cups, most of them empty. Some are tipped over, and there's a few that have fallen and spilled, liquid dripping down the counter's edge and pooling on the floor. You know you should clean it up, but once you find the warmth of your bed for the night you're going to be too busy being unconscious to contribute.

“What a fucking mess,” you grumble, turning to raid the cupboards; you haven't eaten in hours. There's nothing good. You try to push away the thought of just how selfish that sounds and grab a cup half empty and take a drink from it to empty it and delay your usual pitting on yourself, filling it up with water and downing that too. Maybe you won't cry tonight.

The cup only seems to hold mere ounces, and it is nowhere near enough. You force down another three cupfuls from the tap and your headache lightens.  
  
Still in search of some form of nutrients, your hand wraps itself around the simple white handle of the culinary storage container and tugs sharply, pulling it open. Empty shelves are what you're met with. How the fuck are all of you still alive, even? Hm. This place has clearly not been restocked in months. You should probably do that later. Closing the door, you look past it into one of the less lit areas of the room. There's a form slumped against the side of the fridge, facing away from you. It's a boy, with shock white hair and a cape wrapped around himself.

“Strider?”

The head of hair shifts subtly with a grumble and a thin hand shooing you away with minimal effort and zero eye contact. His hand looks especially pale in the bad lighting, almost glowing like how Kanaya used to but less bright. He looks like a ghost. Dave's head stays in place, burrowing deeper into his knees as if he could hear your thoughts and was trying to hide from them.

“Yeah, nice to run into you too, asshole.” You hiss, even if you didn't mean to. You crouch down in front of him. Dave only spares you a glance, the lenses of his shades bug-like and round, glinting faint light from the ceiling. He fixes them quickly to his nose when he notices them off-center.

"Leave me be," Dave mumbles bluntly. There's a regretful sting in the vacancy of his voice. You can't tell anymore but you pick up the slightest sense that he might be staring at you from behind the glass. It's only now that you realize there's a small plastic bottle of a dark yellow liquid in his lap. You figure it's something of a hybrid beverage he's whipped up. You know, like a fucking lunatic. You narrow your eyes, refusing to absorb a word of his drunken stupidity. Leave him be? And to do what, sit here on the floor in a pile of himself? Like fuck are you letting that happen.

"Do you wanna try a sip, babe?" He gestures the bottle to you as he catches you eyeing it, a betraying smirk beginning to show on his face.

“What the fuck did you just call me?" You make a face and pretend like hearing that didn't make something in you snap and get hot, like the glow stick Dave showed you once. "Keep your alien juices to yourself, fuckhead, I don't need any.” 

You shake your head and scowl at him. Dave snickers. You force an annoyed click in your throat. “The fuck are you laughing at?” Dave stops laughing and looks up at you, waving a hand at you dismissively. He's smiling a fraction and another tiny tension inside of you pops and relaxes, bringing its heat to your cheeks this time.

“Nothing.”

You definitely have some doubts about the supposed "nothing", but you put it aside in your thoughts and shift your weight onto the floor, sitting with your legs crossed. Dave sits up a little and his cape falls to his side as he leans forward and pushes on his knees to stand. The height he rises to catches you off guard for a half second; Dave is a good foot taller than you and could break all of your bones if he tried and you didn't struggle. It's actually kind of alarming.

You guess that Dave must have stood up a little too quickly, because once he's up he stumbles and grabs the counter to keep from falling over. For a few seconds you almost thought he might tip over on you. Ironic, considering you were literally just contemplating the matter. You crane your head back to look up at him and he rubs his cheek, the neck of the piss-liquid bottle still in his other hand. You hop up and gently take it from his fingers, setting it further away on the counter. He obviously doesn't need any more of whatever that is, and you might as well try to help as long as you contribute to the community here, what with a reputation to uphold and all.

"Maybe you should put this away and consider not giving yourself alcohol poisoning. I don't want to have to call a fucking AA meeting, Dave, shit."

Dave cringes back. "You don't worry your sweet little head over no interventions." He turns around and leans on the counter edge behind him. 

"Rose wouldn't want you to." You frown at him sadly and press your lips together in thought. Dave sighs long, frowning too.

"Yeah. I know. I'm more disappointed in myself than I am drunk."

"You should lay down... And maybe tell me what's making you act so reckless while you're at it." Dave hesitates at the idea. Something's bothering him and you can tell.

"I'll listen."

He doesn't respond at first. You can almost feel Dave's thoughts churning in the air, like an unspoken questionability of how much you would actually _listen_. You shake your head and take his arm so he'll follow you into the hallway. He walks with you willingly, his arm slung around your shoulders. Away from the depressing party going on in the next room. Away from anyone else. Now you're alone. 

“Have I ever told you what a great armrest you are?”  
“Shut the fuck up, you're drunk.”

 

 

Since your block is closer, the original plan was to make up an extra pile so Dave could rest; but the mental reminder to clean your mess stops you in your tracks. And for once, despite the rudeness, Past Karkat is kind of right. Maybe even more than a little. Your block isn't presentable under any social standards, even for a drunken imbecile. Dave separates from your shoulder eventually and stumbles past you down the hallway, obviously not paying attention to what's in front of him. As you look up, though, you see that he's standing straighter than before and he's walking towards a transportalizer. It must lead to his room. You trail after him quickly and feel your bloodpumper swell up nervously.

You've never even thought about finding Dave's block before. Why would you? When he's not in Can Town, the kitchen, or with his head in your lap watching movies, he's in his block and that means he's out of your hair. Hanging out, it's always been in one of the empty rec rooms or over Trollian. You could only imagine that it looked like. Was it messy like yours, or tidy with space on the bed to spread out and sleep comfortably? Your mind wanders off to the possible furniture or what blankets he has laying around as Dave leans back into you, his shoulder warm against yours. When the two of you materialize again it's in a hallway you don't recognize, but Dave steps right off the transportalizer and starts down the corridor. Naturally, you do the same, pretending like the air doesn't chill your hands and make your skin crawl. You make it a point to stay close to Dave and avoid the vent grates that peer down at you from the ceiling.

You come up ahead of him and hop down a short set of stairs two stairs at a time. Bad decision. Dave tries to do the same thing and tumbles down the fast four steps, crashing into you. Impact knocks you on your ass and Dave faceplants into the ground halfway on top of you still. His weight combined with the fall winds the living hell out of you, leaving you gasping and sitting up to push him off your legs. Dave scrambles to sit up even faster, giving you a quick apology before he's already hopping to his feet. You look up at him as Dave swears, cupping his hand under his nose hunched over. Red seeps through the knuckles of his fingers. Fuck.

For a scary moment, your bloodpumper stops and stutters back to life beating twice as fast in panic. This can't be good. The red almost makes your vision swim and your stomach churn as Dave groans and pulls his hand away a little to look at the bit of blood in his palm. A drop slips down the back of his hand and  _splat_ s on the cement floor. The blood sends a wave of anxiety slithering up your neck, sticky and subtle. What's worse is the urge to stop the bleeding purely on behalf on Dave's health. You feel like you need to justify that to yourself immediately.  _Since when did you give two bulgeblistering fucks for whether Dave Pompous Asshole Strider hurt himself or not? What happened to the whole eat-shit-and-die thing?_ You're sure Dave would ask the same questions. You thought you hated Dave. It's only in the past several weeks where you've bothered putting up with him. Maybe even become friends. There's literally nothing but occasional hand-in-the-popcorn-bowl accidental touches and, like, shitty bickering holding together anything that resembles a friendship here. Or a truce. It's not like Dave wants anything more than just that: watching movies and petty arguments. This much is obvious in the fact the most blackrom thing you've ever done was once when you deleted Dave's Elder Scrolls save file in order to start a new game. You thought in the moment that his reaction would be funny- which was totally fine and completely platonic- except it wasn't funny. You just made yourself want to curl into a tiny ball and decompose. 

You've been trying not to overthink and analyze your reactions recently. I mean, you'd sat there feeling bad over something the ass-sack probably deserved. Then a week before when you accidentally knocked Terezi over you just helped her up and went on your way. The guilt was infinitesimal in comparison and you've known TZ for sweeps more than Dave. You know her so much better. She's brave when she needs to be, witty, smart. 

==> Remember.

Dave’s so...  
So... So much better than you, actually.   
That's right. You remember now why you even bother with these lame-ass gatherings anyways. As reluctant you are to admit, it is Dave Strider.

==> It's not like you ever really forgot that fact.

In the two sweeps you've known him you've carved him into your memory. His face, his walk, the accent that slipped out from time to time and the blush when he caught himself with it. His lips... How wide his hands and shoulders and chest are. How his smile gives you energy even on your slowest day. That part of your pan takes up the name Strideritis. That part of your pan is also kind of maybe just a little teeny tiny bit Red for the guy. Less than maybe. Ouch. You degrade yourself more and more every day, don't you? The last remaining pieces of your sanity are slowly being consumed by this disease, Strideritis. Instead of looking at empty rooms as you walk past them, you imagine Dave and you cuddled together under a blanket with a husktop, and you're kissing. Then he says something and you punch his arm. Dave laughs at it. Knowing you take so much pleasure in imagining these things hurts almost as much as knowing he doesn't feel the same way.

While you spiral into the depths of Strideritis, Dave keeps walking down the hallway ahead, stumbling over himself in a hurry with his hand cupped close under his nose. Once Dave gets inside his block he disappears from sight and you're alone again in the hallway.

==> Enter.

You step inside of the human's room, only mildly surprised to find that the floor isn't as cluttered as yours. It's actually exceptionally tidy, apart from a few articles of clothing strewn about and misplaced. A desk, a set of launchpads, and a notebook with almost a full page of writing. The love seat facing a computer station is cluttered with electronics and discarded paper balls. You almost have the thought to go and lay in them - almost. What the fuck is wrong with you?

And what the fuck is wrong with that lamp at the side of the bed? It's a plush spotbug with a red plastic shell on its back, warm light seeping from gaps in its shell where the spots would be. The sloppily stitched face creeps you out. Time to see where that human went. You don't think you could manage to hang out for much longer with that thing looking at you.

Dave strolls out of what you assume to be the ablution block, the blood from his nose mopped up and out of sight. Silently, Dave slips off his shirt, not helping with your rosiness as you shuffle in a little more and perch yourself on the edge of the bed, shoulders stiff. Dave sits next to you and the grin he's wearing leaks into the air like a foul stench until it reaches you and you're forced to turn and look at him.   
You don't think you can deal with him for too much longer either.

“Welcome to the Knight's quarters, friend-bro-guy-pal.” Dave announces, unsure of what word to use. Somehow you think he did that just to fuck with you.  
“It's more like a cardboard tower and a palisade of shitty excuses. Please release your sickest of beats so that I may climb them and save you from drowning in soporifics.” Your roll your eyes, glancing from him to the floor. "You know, it's not very cool of you to make me have to drag you here."  
Dave sighs, laying back. “So not cool.” his hands part and fall back to his sides, looking over at you and raising a finger to point in your direction, curling and beckoning you over to lay with him. “You're pretty damn cool, though, babe.”  
You find yourself coming over next to him despite your hands beginning to shake, mumbling to him cautiously, and resist the strengthening urge to scold him on how stupid your nicknames are. “Strider...”

He rolls his head back and smiles a bit.  
“I- Oh, man. I love it when you just growl at me like that, all surname-y and shit. H-O-T. A one-way ticket to Boner City right there, population: every Dave in earshot.”  
“...Dave?”  
“Hmm?” He glances up at you, lifting his head to stare in your direction with merely somewhat foggy eyes, his shades knocked halfway off his face again with a sincerely clueless look on his face. You frown at him, physically feeling your facade fall as you soften up and your immediate frustration falls.  
(Okay, that was actually really cute, that look right then. You'll never tell him that. Never.)  
Karkat, just try to calm yourself down. Sit. Lay back. Contemplate life for a moment and gather your shit, get it together, c'mon. The weight of your body releases a great deal of pressure out into the mattress as you lay down on it, ignoring the spotbug on the bedside table near you on this side of the platform. Turning on your side to face Dave, you inquire, carefully: “So, you think I'm cool?”  
“You're cool as shit. Why wouldn’t I think you're cool?” He looks over at you, propping himself up on an elbow.  
“Because I'm pretty much the most revolting thing in paradox space to ever maybe exist.”  
“No, you're not.”  
“So what? What are your words supposed to mean to me? That's my own opinion of myself and there's no reason what-so-fucking-ever to disagree with that.”  
“I can think of a few pretty good reasons to disagree.”  
“So?”  
“For one, you're my friend. You've lead us all and yelled at us all, in the best way conceivable. You're endearing, charismatic, and have good motives-- I don't think I could list everything, and especially not in an intoxicated state of mind.”  
“How do I know you're not just spewing?”  
“Dude-”  
“You’re drunk.”  
“Dude, listen,” he pokes a hand at you and one more time, landing a finger in the center of your chest. You're mildly surprised to find that it doesn't pierce your skin, but you feel stupid for flinching like that immediately; humans don't have talons on their hands like you or Terezi do. Dave’s stare pulls your head out of your ass as you come back to your conscious mind and look at him, grabbing his wrist to prevent any more pokage. He continues anyways.  
“How the hell you’ve managed to keep everyone alive this long, I'm dumbfounded. Really. You deserve better than what you're stuck with.”  
Red returns to your face as you think that one over, squeezing his wrist tighter than what you realize you’d been before as the frustration slowly trickles back into the foreground of your consciousness. You avoid looking at him.  
“I’ve done a horrible job at keeping everyone alive. The few people left here are survivors of my mistakes and brave heroes who beat their obstacles. I don’t--” you pick out your next words carefully, pausing. “..I don’t fucking deserve to be here now; I should have died a long time ago along with the rest of my friends. All I do is create and run away from problems.”  
“You complain too much.” Dave rolls his eyes and lowers his voice considerably, pulling your hand to himself and pressing a kiss to the knuckle, sweet and slow. You don’t even have to argue with yourself over how much that made your bloodpusher jump.  
“Sometimes the things you say about yourself are so full of shit I have to stop and laugh and want to hug you at the same time. And, I value the air in my lungs so I’d appreciate it if you didn't steal it every time you go and do something like that.”  
You flush deeper and try on a scowl, but it fades as quick as you register how closer dave face is to yours while you were pulling your shit together and attempting in vain to return your face to its original color.  
Huh.  
Flash back to page 719 in your Mental Copy and Rulebook of Romcoms, Where You Keep Notes of Possibly Clique or Platitude Trends In the Movies You Watch. Okay. The book says he’s hitting on you, which isn’t that surprising though it does deepen your reddening cheeks, but including the change of space and the slight inclination of his head, Dave’s planning to-!  
Aaand he does it. Dave kisses you firmly, chapped lips and a hand on your hip.  
Holy shit, is this actually happening to you? You think you might be hallucinating.  
But, yes, it is, and you can show yourself some evidence to prove it. (Even though you're a little skeptical about the motives.) Merely on the touch of his lips, you can taste lingering flavors, among them things like the fading alcohol, blood from what you assume are cracked and chewed lips, and maybe a sort of taste native to his mouth only wigged in there somewhere. All very faint, however.  
You're nepeta’ing again. Snap out of it and kiss this charmingly adverse douchebag, idiot.  
Right. You twitch your lips into Dave’s and repeat the motion, hoping he gets the message and doesn't pull away from you; that’d be embarrassing.  
He likes this apparently, humming and smiling a bit as he idly rubs a thumb across a spot near your waist and presses himself towards you more eagerly. Complying, you do the same just to metaphorically ´hand over the message´. Wow, that sounds dumb. ‘What message are you even trying to convey? Like there was even a message in the first place to examine-’  
Dave pulls away, just the tiniest bit and just enough to mumble against your lips while you pause suddenly, your mouth unmoving.  
“Why did you stop.” You state plainly, tilting your head a bit and looking up at him through a thin veil of eyelashes. He, in turn, smirks warmly, and you mentally facepalm for how many uncountable times you've elicited a smirk from this douchebag.  
“Hm, I knew you’d do that,” Dave murmurs to you softly, exhaling against your cheek, like the smug bastard he is. You can feel it fan out over your skin as it passes and the stench of alcohol comes back to your nose momentarily, more evident in his breath than in his mouth, which is a little weird.  
Again, your thoughts are cut a bit short by another kiss being pressed neatly to your lips, Dave's thumb rubbing idly into your side he’s holding with that hand of his. It feels firm and comforting, or maybe even intimate.  
That thought kind of scares you, a relationship so quickly after what happened with your ex moirail. Of course, it's a different quadrant completely, and different things apply for red relationships compared to pale, but you still can't shake the feeling that you're just going to fuck it up like you did with everyone else.  
Your hand travels up to rest on Dave’s shoulder as you return the kiss just as deeply, deciding not to epilogue too much every time Strider says something that you don't exactly second on first notice. He smiles into your lips and slowly pulls away just as your heart picks up and starts hammering against your chest, your face definitely never recovering from the amount of blood showing your embarrassment. Then he looks down at you again and, without any other gesture to you besides an almost deviously lustful glance, turns over, his hand pulling you with him as his hand moves further down to your thigh.  
Something about the way he grabs at you and jumps into another frenzy of kissing tells you this is going to escalate to places you've never even thought possible with such a thick-headed stud, and in the notebook you keep tucked away in the corner of your mind somewhere you scribble down a quick note to yourself for later: you're really going to get shit deep in this, aren't you?

**Author's Note:**

> this is in a doomed timeline, hence the other kids all being there way too early.  
> Gon be fun


End file.
